Nobody's Angel by Thomas Mcguane Page A

nicest kind of logwork’d get tanked up and fight with a knife. Old Warren Butterfield killed him and buried him past the Devil’s Slide, only not too many people known that at that time and Warren’s at the rest home, fairly harmless I’d say. Virginian needed it, anyhow. I could show you the spot. Shot him with a deer rifle. Virginian couldn’t remember pulling the knife out on Warren at the dance. Warren told me that couple days later and he went up to shoot him, that Virginian couldn’t figure for the life of him why. It gave Warren second thoughts, but he let him have it. Everybody was pleased, big old violent cracker with protruding ears, ruining the dances. Nicest kind of logwork, though, used a froe, chopped at them timbers between his feet, looked like they’d been through the planer down to the mill. After that, everybody went to frame. No more Virginian.”
    Mary said, “Kill, shoot, whack, stab, chop.”
    “Well, that’s how it was.”
    Mary looked up past Patrick and said, “Who are you?” Patrick stared at her an instant and turned. It was Tio, standing in the doorway. He suspended his Stetson straw horizontal to his stomach.
    “Knocked, guess nobody heard me. I see you, Pat?”
    “Surely,” said Patrick, getting up and leaving his napkin and following Tio outside.
    “I’ll be listening to murder stories,” Mary said. Tio looked back, made a grimacing, uncomprehending smile, which she received blankly. “How y’all?” Tio tried.
    “Say, thanks for dinner,” bayed the grandfather. “And don’t forget: Water-packed, or
n-o
spells no!”
    Outside, Tio asked, “You cook, Pat?”
    “Yeah, sure do. I like it a lot.”
    “Make chili?”
    “Yup. My grandfather just requested it.”
    “Like a tejano or this northern stew-type deal?”
    “Tejano.”
    “I make Pedernales chili à la L.B.J. Crazy bout L.B.J. Eat that chili in homage, old buddy. Y’all through eatin, weren’t you?”
    “We were, actually.”
    “What’n the hell was that?”
    “Chinese food.”
    “Old boys have got more oil than anybody thinks.”
    “Who’s this?”
    “Chinese. We sit here?”
    “Sure, this’d be fine.” They sat on the wood rack where water had once sluiced to cool milkcans not that long ago, before the supermarket. Patrick could see the big anthracite Cadillac nosed up to the straw stack.
    “It’s a hell of a picturesque deal out here,” said Tio, looking all around. “Has to be an escape. About a monthof this, though, I’d start missing my wells and my travel agent, in that order. Getting to where I can’t hardly stand a vacation. The same time I’m looking to farm everything out. Supposed to be delegating. But delegating for what? Got everything a guy’d ever need. We knocked off work and redid an old sugar refinery down in the islands, then moved to Saint-Barts. Every time we went down to dinner, we’d be lined up behind these Kuwait sand niggers waying three different currencies at the waiter. Me, I took the old lady and went back to Tulsa, got her a little hidey-hole and a bunch of charge accounts, and threw her to fortune. I’m not saying I farmed
that
out. But I figured this: If nature’s going to run its course, an intelligent man best stand back from his television set. Well, nothing happened. By the time I got a hundred million in help on a little offshore daydream of mine, she’d bought maybe two dresses and was back breaking colts like somebody supposed to call you sir. Still now, Pat, my conscience is a-nagging at me all the while. Hell, look at you. ‘What’s the point of all this falderal,’ ole Pat is asking hisself.”
    “You read my mind.” Patrick thought, I must have a stupid, vacant face for people to run on at me like this. I must have big jug-handle ears.
    “Well, the point is, good buddy, I took my chances. And there wasn’t any chances. Old Shit is bulletproof. You could drop her anywhere and she’d land on her feet.
Plunk.
She could run a ranch while